


Solidarity In Silence

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade start to deal with the aftermath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE SIX THATCHERS.
> 
> Do not read if you do not want to be spoiled.
> 
> SPOILERS LIE AHEAD. READ BEYOND THIS POINT AT YOUR PERIL.
> 
> I enjoyed the Lestrade/Sherlock interactions, particularly when Sherlock said the woman Lestrade was going on a date with wasn't right for him. I thought I'd write about it. Then the ending happened, and that beautiful plot died with it. So, this deals with the original thought, and also that ending. Still sobbing.
> 
> I didn't mention the character death in the tags so as not to create spoilers. But if you've watched the episode- character death applies.

A cloud of silence, drifted over them, drowned out only by the constant traffic outside the window. There was no hiding grief. It was plain to see, written on shattered faces, in weary bones and empty eyes. They shared a look. Their expressions were a mirror. 

Between them on the couch lay a packet of white powder, unopened. Neither of them would be the first to move it. For Sherlock to do so would be an admission of his weaknesses. For Lestrade, it would signal that he did not trust Sherlock to throw it away. So it stayed between them for the longest time, as the traffic went by and they breathed in sync, in solidarity. 

Four days had passed since it happened. Somehow Sherlock had gone this long without making a phone call for something powerful to tear his head apart, or to numb it. And when he finally caved, when the brown paper bag arrived on his doorstep, it was a second phone call he made minutes later. One to Lestrade, and he only had to say ‘I need you’ and Lestrade was there, non-judgemental, ever-reliable. 

Sherlock reached for the packet first, a shaking hand hovering over it. If he grabbed for it, he wasn’t convinced he could throw it away. He needed to dull the constant ache, that gremlin sitting in his chest, tearing at him, ripping his heart to shreds over and over. 

Lestrade’s hand rose, waited in the air beside his. “Together?” he suggested.

Sherlock nodded, and their fingers met on the packet, interlocking. Neither of them looked down at it, and the touch was a heavy thing between them. Sherlock was overwhelmed with sudden self-awareness, nerves in his fingers alight from a single touch, fingertips sensitive to the other man’s skin. Sensitive to Lestrade’s own fingertips, some stained with fading tobacco. 

Sherlock tightened his hand around the packet, then pressed it into Lestrade’s waiting palm. “Get rid of it,” he said. 

Lestrade went, and Sherlock heard the flushing of the toilet. He was back moments later, forehead creased with concern, eyes watchful. 

“It’s killing me, what happened,” Sherlock admitted, turning his attention to his knees. “I keep replaying it.”

“Yeah. But you couldn’t have known she was going to do that.”

“She saved me. I don’t know why.”

Lestrade shrugged and sat back down beside him. “You’ll drive yourself mad trying to figure it out. Sometimes you’ll never know.” 

Sherlock paused. “You should be with John,” he said. “Not me.”

“I was, earlier. I think I was getting in the way, if I’m honest. Kept trying to defend you, and he told me to shut up or piss off. He’s grieving, I get that. Anyway. I’m here with you now. So, here I’m going to stay. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’ll sit and look at my phone until it runs out of battery and then make you dinner, because I doubt you’ve eaten anything other than biscuits for days.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Sherlock admitted. “You can cook me dinner. I’ll even eat it. Then you should go. Go and worry about John, that’s the useful thing to do.” 

“I am worried about John, but he’s not…” Lestrade wavered. 

“Not what?”

“Well, he’s not…” Lestrade hesitated again. “I mean, it was only me and you for five years, yeah? So, I’m going to be here because someone ought to be.”

Sherlock huffed. “I do so love being your chore.”

“For goodness sake, do you even listen to yourself sometimes? Stop twisting my words. I’m here because you asked for me, but also because I want to be. If you want to lock yourself away and torture yourself, you’re going to have to do it in front of me, because I’m staying put.”

“Why do you always do this?” Sherlock asked. 

“Do what?”

“Sacrifice yourself for me?”

Lestrade sighed, reaching out and covering Sherlock’s hand with his own. “Well, you always sacrifice yourself for me. You jumped from a rooftop to save my life. You try to get me to take credit for the cases you solve. And this isn’t a sacrifice to me, anyway. It’s just… it’s what I want to do.”

“Watch me self-destruct?”

“No. No, it kills me to see it. But I’d rather be here than have you be alone.”

Sherlock turned to him, entwining their fingers. “I’ve known for a long time that you’re interested in me.”

If Lestrade was in any way ashamed his feelings had been so obvious, he hid it well. “I figured that was the case.”

“Did you go on that date?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it?”

Lestrade shrugged. “She wasn’t right for me. Like you said.”

“She might have been right for you. She wasn’t wrong for you. I said she was wrong for you because… I didn’t want her to have you.”

“Alright…” Lestrade wrinkled his nose. “Well, that’s fine for you, because she doesn’t have me.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “I’m afraid if something happens between us, it’ll be another thing I mess up. I haven’t done a good job of being a good person, lately.”

“You fucked up a bit, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah, I fucked up. I fucked up quite a lot.”

Lestrade hummed. “Yeah. Murdering that bloke…”

“Yes, that was a bit of an error…”

“And the overdose?”

“Mmm, Mycroft wasn’t impressed.”

Lestrade sighed and squeezed his hand. “Mary wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. You did everything to save her. We all saw it. You couldn’t have predicted what she’d do.”

“Then why does it hurt this much?”

“Because you’re alive.”

Silence settled over them once again. They sunk back against the couch, hands still joined between them. Neither of them moved. For Sherlock to move first, to lean towards him, would be an admission he wanted this more than he had ever let himself believe. For Lestrade, it would signal a quiet desperation, a much-desired conclusion to months of longing. They breathed in sync, in solidarity.

Sherlock turned his head first. He took a second to look, to study the man beside him. It wasn’t such a bad idea to share a touch with someone he had trusted for a decade. Lestrade looked back. The air sizzled. 

“Together?” Sherlock asked.

They met in the middle, lips colliding, the touch burning, impassioned, before the contact softened, the liquid noise of a kiss deafening in the flat’s stillness. They shared a shaking breath, eyes fluttering open and then closed, noses touching for a moment. Their mouths met once more, lightly, controlled this time, ending as soon as it had begun. 

“We should wait,” Lestrade whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. “A few weeks. Give the air time to settle a bit.”

“I agree.” Sherlock sidled closer. They leaned back against the couch. Their heads tilted in towards each other, touching. They sat staring at the wall, hands still joined, as a cloud of silent, shared grief descended over them once more.


End file.
